The Apple Pie
by PhoenixVenom
Summary: Even thouogh it happens every year, the other countries can never make any sense of it. Crossposted on Ao3


«Did you bring the apple pie, Sweden?» Norway asked casually as he entered the room. Several of the other countries looked at them oddly for the comment, but quickly disregarded it as the Nordics being the Nordics. Weird, and at all times at least nearly incomprehensible.

Sweden shot his neighbour a dirty look for what he appeared to take as a slight.

"Of course I brought it," he replied indignantly, procuring the asked for pie, "Fresh out of the oven." The pie was indeed giving off steam, and wafts of delicious smell to entice the senses of everyone present.

" _Yes_ , apple pie!" Denmark cheered, despite arguably being one of those who shouldn't have been surprised by its presence.

"Well, are you going to slice it?" Iceland asked, clearly looking forward to having a cut. In response, Sweden sat the sizeable pie down on the table and began portioning it out on a conveniently placed stack of plates already there.

"Everyone, please help yourselves, and remember, only one slice apiece," he then admonished. Finland was first to reach for a plate, and all the Nordics seemed to for once work seamlessly as a team to ensure every country representative present actually listened, both with regards to having a piece of pie, and to only having one. A few seemed irritated by the fact, and no one understood _why_ having two pieces of pie wasn't allowed. It wasn't as though they ever ran out. All of the Nordics, on any of the random occasions when one of them decided to bake for a meeting (exactly once a year, and always apple pie, not that any of the other nations ever cared to keep a tally on ether), always made plenty, and never let anyone have the leftovers, no matter how the others begged or whined (or threatened). Sweden was, of course, no exception.

China, almost certain that he would successfully manage to grab an extra slice this time around, was badly startled by a sharp slap to his hand and accompanying glare from Norway, a distinctly out of character pattern of behaviour for the usually outwardly emotionless man. An irritated (and maybe just the slightest bit bitter) look was quickly followed by a sulky pout. He really should know them all better by now. The Nordics really had far too much ownership to the apples altogether, though, considering the fruit originated from _him_ , not them. His sulky fuming was done silently, clear imagery of the consequences of being too vocal before the end of the break in these situations lurking too close to the surface for comfort.

Norway regarded the sliced pie with a small inwards smirk. To think that pie wasn't really even that much of a typical Nordic pastry, and still none of the other countries suspected a thing. Well, he supposed it _was_ for the better, at that. With an irritated sigh that he didn't even really bother to hide, he cut his hand in front of France, effectively stopping him from helping himself to another piece of pie. Judging by the amount left, there shouldn't be anyone left needing to be served.

"But _mon ami!_ " the Frenchman protested," Sweden's pie is so delicious, only one piece simply will not do!" Forcing himself not to roll his eyes, Norway in stead gave him a dead stare.

"You'll live." His tone of voice was equally dead, and his gaze drifted back to the plates on the table, then wandered across the nations around it. That was not quite right. The counting was off, and Sweden wouldn't notice this time. No outward signs of emotion, he inwardly sighed as he stood and lifted one of the plates still holding pie and bringing it over to his northernmost neighbour.

"Eat your pie, Ivan. It will help." The large Russian man looked back at him in blank puzzlement, but took the offered plate without protest, figuring it couldn't be poisoned when it had been for everyone, and he had seen the Norwegian eating it as well. And it _did_ look delicious. The thought tickled at the back of his memory, but he pushed it to the side and nibbled cautiously on the pastry. It _was_ good, and still warm. He carefully made sure not to shoot the other a suspicious look; it didn't _have_ to be magic, really, it could just be skilful time management.

As Russia became absorbed in eating his pie, Norway allowed himself the smallest hint of a visible smile before leaving for his own seat. Experience dictated that the second part of this meeting – after the actual lunch break – would be extra boisterous, and there wasn't much to do about it, but for the time being, he could enjoy the relative calm.

Another who was basking in the uncommonly quiet atmosphere was Germany, sitting back in his chair and observing as everyone ate quietly, or went on to hold hushed conversation with those sitting nearest to them when their plates were emptied. Like the rest, he had trouble pinpointing the exact routine of this occurrence, but he caught on to the eerie familiarity of the experience. He absently took a sip from the coffee cup in his hand, trying to pinpoint exactly what about the situation caused the hush. If only all meetings were this quiet.

"Ve~ Germany, isn't this apple pie really delicious?" the personification for northern Italy enthused, effectively breaking the atmosphere said personification had been enjoying until moments ago. How the food enthusiast still had any pie left was a mystery to him, as he glanced up to see Italy nibbling on the last crumbs from his plate. Maybe he had been served late? Whatever the case, it seemed his opportunity to enjoy the silence for once had been lost. Knowing his long time ally and friend, he also knew that getting out of verbally answering was out of the question.

"Yes, quite." He may have wanted to add more, but right now, he rather hoped for Veneziano to take a hint for once in his life.

"Eh? Are you sure? You don't sound so certain."

"I'm sure." Wasn't there someone else the Italian could pester?


End file.
